Desperate Measures
by r4ven3
Summary: This story opens in 6.9 after Davie King shoots Harry. Harry contemplates his actions in Gabriel Plaza. Does he have a death wish, and if so, why? Four chapters. AU.
1. Chapter 1

_Harry's house – London, UK – Tuesday evening:_

He leaned his head back against the end of the bath and allowed his aching body to sink beneath the surface of the hot, soapy water. Everything ached, but it was his chest which hurt like buggery, and the everyday business of breathing was still painful. He allowed his mind to wander back to the events of the day, in particular to the siege in Gabriel Plaza …... a bomb in a deserted taxi, strategically placed to be close to where people were eating and drinking at an outdoor café, and all with Davie King in position with a high-powered rifle, ready to pick off innocent civilians, one by one. Harry was not entirely sure why it was he stepped out into the open, in front of the taxi, and offered himself as a target. At the time he'd thought that seeing the core issue – the history – was between he and King only, and so in offering his own sorry life for King to pick off at will, one way or another he would bring the stand-off to an appropriate conclusion, and then provided Adam and Malcolm had managed to defuse the bomb, everyone could go home.

He still wondered why Davie King hadn't shot him in the head.

He still wondered why he assumed it would be enough that he wore a bullet-proof vest on the off chance that King would play nice, and shoot him in the chest.

He still wondered – in that moment of self-sacrifice – if he wanted to die, wanted to end it all. His head says he didn't, but his heart …...? He doesn't know what his heart wants, it still being in a thousand pieces, scattered between London and wherever-she-is.

Harry is used to compartmentalising his life and his emotions. Without this considerable skill, he would have been carted off to Tring years ago, a mumbling, trembling mess. There are so many emotions he keeps under wraps – anger (not always successfully), fear, panic, regret, the pain of loss – and as he has aged, he finds it harder each day to put these aside and simply get on with it. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax in the water, shutting down his conscious mind. He needed to rest, to let the regrets and inner questioning leave him, if only temporarily. Except that in moments such as these, when he pushes away the events of the day in order to allow himself the luxury of again feeling human, another regret slips in covertly to take the place of those he has managed to silence.

Ruth.

Sixteen months had passed since he last saw her, and in that time he has heard from her only once. One evening he'd opened his front door and found the usual pile of mail on the floor inside the door. He'd dumped it on the hall table while he'd deactivated the alarm. It hadn't been until he was pouring his second glass of single malt that he'd remembered the mail. He'd gathered it from the hall table, and then sat on the sofa with his drink, sifting through the catalogues, the advertising, the bills, and then there it was, the single postcard, an image of the Duomo at night – Florence, Italy. Who did he know from there? Who did he know who was holidaying there? And then, as he turned the card over to see the familiar writing, he knew. Her message was brief and poignant. _It's been a year since we parted. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you. I pray that you are happy. Rx _ That was all. No indication of where she was living, or how she was filling her time. He believed that her closing statement: _I pray that you are happy_, had a subtext. Either she was unhappy, or she had at last found happiness, perhaps with someone else. He hoped it was the latter, because he couldn't bear to think of her being unhappy because of something he'd failed to do for her.

The investigation into Ruth's part in Maudsley's death had ground to a standstill. There had been other more important, more serious fish to fry, and so the attempts to clear Ruth's name had been shoved to the bottom of the in-tray. The image from the CCTV was obviously a fake, as was the mysterious Fox from Section D. The spotlight would have to be off his section if they were ever to clear Ruth's name, and that looked like happening no time between now and eternity. Once again lost inside his regrets about Ruth, Harry made a decision to have someone look into the debacle that was the aftermath of the Cotterdam incident. Harry couldn't expect Connie to expend any energy over trying to clear Ruth, so all he had was Malcolm, and hopefully his friend and technical guru would be willing to work on the events following Mik Maudsley's suicide in his spare time.

It was another hour before Harry surfaced downstairs, cleansed – physically, at least – and more relaxed than he'd been two hours earlier. Dressed in only his trunks and a bathrobe, he sat in front of the television with a glass of whiskey and a bowl of scrambled eggs. He was only half watching the BBC News channel when on the TV screen he saw himself lying on the pavement, apparently dead. Then he watched, mouth open and about to take another spoonful of egg, as Adam appeared, and pulled him away, behind the taxi. _Christ, who was it filmed that footage? _ He grabbed the TV remote control from behind a cushion, and pressed the mute button, so that the sound of the reporter's voice burst into the room.

"_...say that the sniper was apprehended. The condition of the man who was shot remains unknown. Peace talks are still under way in -_" Harry again pressed the mute button, put down his bowl of scrambled eggs, half eaten, and sat back against the cushions. It was likely that one of the patrons at the coffee shop had either been a journalist, or had sold video footage to the press. It's possible that images of his face – or more to the point, his apparently dead body – would be in tomorrow's papers.

Harry dug around behind another cushion and retrieved his mobile phone. Firstly he rang his daughter, and then he rang his son. He spoke to Catherine briefly, as she was just about to go to bed, and he left a voicemail message on Graham's phone. The gist of the message had been: _Despite what you may have seen on TV, or will read in tomorrow's paper, I am alive and well._ No-one else need know. No-one else would care.

* * *

_A one-bedroom apartment in Livorno, Italy – early Wednesday morning :_

Her job at the book shop didn't begin until 8:30, but her body still woke at 6 am every day. The morning was typical of an Italian summer – warm, clear skies, a slight breeze off the sea which lifted the curtain over her dining table, almost tipping the spoon from her sugar bowl. She had the TV on for company, and the sound was turned down, so as not to wake her neighbours, all of whom slept late. She flicked through the channels until she came to the BBC News channel. She didn't watch it every day, and sometimes not every week. She missed home enough without images of London being beamed into her living room.

She almost missed seeing it. She'd been about to take her empty cereal bowl and her mug to the sink, when the handsome face of Adam Carter filled the screen. She dropped her mug and plate and almost ran to the TV, sitting close to it, her fingers only inches from the screen. She'd been about to place her fingers on Adam's image when she noticed that he was not alone. What she glimpsed before the story changed sent chills through her. Adam was dragging a body out of sight, behind a black cab. It was the identity of the body that had her nerve endings on high alert.

Ruth was sure the body belonged to Harry Pearce. The question she was asking herself was: _Was he dead, or just injured, and how will I find out?_

* * *

_Harry's house – Wednesday morning – 10.51 am:_

After having an early morning meeting at Whitehall, Harry was not due on the Grid until lunchtime. Normally he would go in anyway, ignoring his body's requirement for rest, but this morning, something had drawn him back to his own home. He'd removed his coat and tie, and had opened all the buttons of his shirt, deciding it was time he examined the damage left by the bullet which had lodged in the bullet-proof vest he'd worn when they'd gathered in Gabriel Plaza the previous day. He stood before the mirror above the mantelpiece in his sitting room, gazing at the reflection in the mirror of the widening bruise on his chest, now black in the centre, fading to a dark purple around the edges. It still hurt to breathe, but only if he breathed heavily, such as when he became angry or upset. On awaking that morning, and remembering what he had planned for the day, he'd coughed, which had resulted in the pain in his chest worsening temporarily. If only he could feel nothing. If only he could go about his day with little invested in outcomes. If only he could live with no regrets. If only he could wind back the clock and do so many things differently. In his hand he held a cup of coffee, untouched because he'd rather it were something stronger, something capable of dulling the sharp edges of his feelings, his frustration that he doesn't do a better job, his propensity for caring. He took a gulp of the coffee and swilled it around in his mouth, all the time watching himself in the mirror. The half-finished bowl of scrambled eggs from the night before still sat on the coffee table. He grimaced slightly, not liking the small signs that he was giving up on himself, on his habits of a lifetime, habits which had worked well for him, especially since his divorce twenty years earlier. He disliked the feeling he had of having let go of some of the disciplines which had always punctuated his adult life, and held him together throughout the worst of times. He wondered briefly whether it was too early in the day for a small whiskey, just to chase away the taste of failure. The deal Whitehall had made with Bakhshi had almost cost the lives of all MI5 officers present at Gabriel Plaza the day before. What made him think he could protect those who worked under him? He had barely managed to protect those he loved …... which led him to again ponder another of his massive failures, his failure to protect Ruth sixteen months earlier. That was one failure which had left an enduring bitter taste in his mouth, one that no amount of single malt could wash away.

The day before, in his eyes, had not been a consummate disaster, but only because of a series of flukes and fortunes. Fortune had smiled upon them yesterday, but for how long? Harry just wanted to be able to go to bed and sleep for a very long time, to wake up renewed and energised, eager as the thirty-five year old man he'd once been. He shuffled back to the sofa, on the way putting his coffee cup on the small table. He sat down amongst the cushions, enjoying the softness and warmth which now surrounded his tired body. He leaned his head back against the back of the sofa, and closed his eyes – just for a minute.

When his mobile phone rang, he sat up suddenly, noticing the clock on the mantelpiece read 11.43 am. He'd managed to sleep for almost an hour, and in that sleep he'd not been plagued with dreams of losing members of his team. He'd slept dream free. He grabbed his phone from the breast pocket of his jacket which he'd flung over the back of the sofa when he'd earlier arrived home from his meeting in Whitehall. He answered the phone with one word, "Pearce."

"Harry," he heard Malcolm say, nervously, "where are you?"

"I'm at home. I had an early meeting at Whitehall, and I've been catching up on sleep."

"Sorry. Sorry to have woken you. It's …. there's something of a delicate nature …... you …."

Which is when Harry heard someone knocking on his front door. He had learned that there were several different kinds of knocking. Some people knocked hesitantly, almost politely, as if to say: _I'm really sorry to bother you, but -._ Others knocked assertively, letting him know they expected the door to be opened to them: _ I'm at your door, and I'd appreciate it being opened._ Yet others knocked with impatience, almost as if they were saying: _Open this bloody door – NOW!_ The knocking on his door was of the third variety.

"Wait, Malcolm. There's someone at my door. I'd better get it before they take the door off its hinges. Hold on a minute."

"But, Harry -"

Harry heard no more, as he put the phone down on the table and went to answer his front door.

* * *

_**A/N: I have no idea if it's possible to see BBC News in Italy. I suspect not, but in this fic, it is possible.**_


	2. Chapter 2

At the other end of the phone, Malcolm Wynn-Jones, sitting at his desk on the Grid, pulled the phone receiver from his ear, and rested it face down on the desk while he waited for Harry. _Blast and damn,_ he thought,_ I think I waited too long to make this call_. He suspected he knew who was at Harry's door. Less than an hour earlier he'd received a phone call from her. It was her call sign alright. He'd not had cause to hear it for well over a year. It was when he'd told her that Harry wasn't due on the Grid until lunchtime that she'd quickly ended the call, assuring him that she'd call him again later. She'd wanted to know how Harry was. He kicked himself for the bland answer he'd given her. _Harry? Oh, Harry's – you know – he's the same as usual. He muddles along, but with a little more purpose than the rest of us._ Then she'd asked about the shooting. That was when Malcolm knew why Ruth had called.

Just as another spate of impatient knocking began, Harry opened the door. He stood barefoot in the doorway, shirt open, bruised chest on display, his hand resting on the door, as he stared at the woman who'd been knocking, someone he'd not seen since they'd said goodbye to one another – perhaps forever – beside the Thames one bitterly cold morning sixteen months earlier.

"Harry," she said, her eyes taking in his state of undress, but resting at last on his bruised and battered chest, "can I come in?"

Without a word, Harry stepped back to allow her entry to his front hall, and then, checking that his house was not being watched, he closed the door, and showed Ruth into his sitting room. Once inside the room, he closed the door to the hallway, and stood looking at her. He kept his poker face, not wanting to convey to her the joy he felt at seeing her again, at having her alive and well and in his house.

Ruth lifted her hand towards him, but stopped just short of touching his chest. "You were shot, Harry. That looks -"

"Sore. Yes it is a bit, but I've endured worse. I have to again thank the inventor of the bullet-proof vest."

"Mmm," she said, her lips twitching slightly while her eyes took in all the other healed wounds visible on Harry's broad chest.

"You're here," he said quietly. "I hadn't expected you. Is this why you're here? To check out my wounds?"

Ruth dropped her eyes from his, and he immediately regretted his light tone, which had bordered on the sarcastic. Ruth deserved more than that. Here they were, reunited after sixteen months, and all he can do is say something stupid, something he'd said to hide the well of emotions which were inhabiting his chest, emotions which he'd thought he had secured safely under lock and key. He internally kicked himself. He turned towards the sofa, and pulling the cushions to one side, he offered her a seat.

"Would you like a drink, Ruth?"

"Isn't it a bit early for -?"

"I meant tea or coffee," he replied, smiling in what he hoped was a relaxed way. Inside himself he was screaming. She was back, but for how long? Did her visit mean that within hours she'd again be gone? Then what? Would he have to again close his heart off to feeling, just so that he could get through each day?

"Tea would be nice, Harry. Milk, two sugars."

"I know, I remember," he replied, leaving the room to again boil the kettle.

He stood beside the bench in the kitchen, staring unseeing out the window, wondering how he could best ensure that Ruth didn't again go away and leave him, when he remembered that his shirt was still wide open. He quickly began closing the buttons, when he heard her behind him. When he turned, he saw that she was close, but not too close. He fastened the last two buttons on his shirt, looking down so that he wouldn't have to look into her eyes.

"Christ," he said suddenly, "I was on the phone to Malcolm when you knocked on the door. I'd better -"

"Go on and deal with it, Harry. I'll make the tea."

In the sitting room, he picked up his mobile from the coffee table.

"Are you still there, Malcolm?"

"Er – yes …... and I couldn't help but overhear. She's arrived."

"Yes. We're about to have tea. Can you -?"

"I'll inform Adam when he gets back from meeting his asset. He'll cover for you. Don't come in today, Harry. Not if Ruth is planning on staying a while. You don't know when …..."

"I know. Thanks, but I think I need to be on the Grid today, just in case there are repercussions …."

"Harry, I think you can have a day off occasionally. I'll speak to Connie and to Adam, and you should stay home. I'll tell them you're poorly. After all, you were shot, and …..."

"Thank you, Malcolm. I'll see how things go."

Harry closed his phone, and placed it back on the table, before he took a breath a little deeper than was comfortable for him, and went back to join Ruth in the kitchen.

She was sitting at the table, a mug of tea in front of her, and a fresh mug in front of the chair opposite.

"Are you hungry?" Harry asked, not taking the cue to sit down opposite her. "I probably have some biscuits in here somewhere."

"No, Harry, it's fine. I ate on the plane."

"You flew here? To …... to see me? Is that why you're here?"

"I was watching the BBC news channel at six this morning – that was at five London time – and I saw -"

"You saw the footage of me being dragged out of the firing line by Adam."

"Yes," Ruth breathed, holding her mug of tea with both hands. "That day I left ….. I told you not to get shot, and here you are, getting shot …... I had to know."

Harry stopped searching for biscuits, and lowered himself into the chair opposite her. "You could have rung the Grid," he said, again before he'd thought clearly about how his words would be interpreted by her. _You're all kinds of stupid, Pearce,_ he thought. _Is it any wonder she and you never got it together?_

"I rang the Grid when I landed. From a public phone. I gave my call sign and asked to speak to Malcolm."

"You didn't ask to speak to me?"

"Harry," Ruth said, exasperation at last emerging in her voice, "I thought you'd be at worst, dead, and at best, hospitalised. The Grid was the very last place I expected to find you."

"I'm fine, Ruth. I'm only home because …... to be honest, I don't know why I'm home. I had no real need to come home – other than to feed Scarlet. I forgot to do it last night. She was starving this morning." Harry at last noticed the line of determination in Ruth's mouth. "It's so good to see you, Ruth. I've …..." He was unable to complete the sentence. After all, she had most likely found happiness with another.

"I've missed you too, Harry."

"How did you know I was about to say that?"

"I just guessed. If you've missed me even half as much as …..."

"You can double it, and then increase it by the power of a hundred," he said quietly.

"Only a hundred?" she said, her voice little more than a whisper.

They sat in silence for some minutes. She would sip her tea while he watched, and then he would take a sip while she watched him. Each loved the subtle movements of the lips of the other. _I've kissed those lips_, they each thought. _Will he/she allow me to kiss them again_? The late morning tea ballet. Harry and Ruth had danced this dance before.

"Am I allowed to know where you're living, and what name you're using?"

"I don't see why not," she said, her eyes still on his lips. "I have to go back there. Until …... I talked to Malcolm, and he thinks it's now likely that my name can be cleared. The heat is off at last. I wouldn't have flown here today had I thought I'd be in danger."

"Are you ..." It was a question he had to ask. There could be no `them', no `us' until he knew. "Have you found anyone else, Ruth? Is there someone you are going back to?"

She shook her head, a smile forming on her lips. "Is there for you?" she asked.

"How could I? How could I possibly consider being with someone else while you're still alive somewhere in the world?"

She nodded, happy to have heard that. "You asked about where I am."

"Yes, I'd like to know, if that's alright."

"I've been to a lot of places – all in Europe – but for the last eight months I've been in Livorno."

"Italy," he breathed, "near Florence. So you were living there when you sent the postcard."

She nodded, once again holding her mug of tea close to her face, cupping it with one hand, the fingers of the other hand holding the handle. "I like it there. If I can't be in London, then it's a good alternative. I live alone, and I work part-time in a book shop. It's a good life, but it's …... it's sometimes very lonely."

"And your name?"

"It was a name Zaf chose for me. Emma Carlyle. I have one other passport under the name of Caroline Maitland, but I haven't used it for over a year."

"When are you going back? You said that you have to go back."

"I have my job, and it wouldn't be right to simply walk away without giving notice. Besides, Malcolm thinks it may take a few months to clear my name."

"Months." Harry breathed the word with the same distaste he'd once uttered the name, `Mace'.

"I was meant to work today, but I called in sick. I'm not expected back until Friday, so I'll probably fly back tomorrow evening."

"That soon," he said sadly.

"Harry, if you want to, and if you can take the time away from the Grid, you're welcome to visit me – between now and when I come back, providing Malcolm can soon get the paperwork together."

"I'd like that. I'd like that a lot. Tomorrow night. That gives us no time at all. You'll stay here, of course. I have a spare room. I'll have to go into work tomorrow morning, but I'll take the afternoon off and we can spend it doing whatever you want."

"Oh, Harry," she said, "what an option to give a woman. You can't possibly know what it is I want."

"Just don't tell me you want to go shopping. I've been told I'm not very good at accompanying a woman shopping. I don't really understand the need women have to shop. Sorry, that's probably not what you want to hear."

"Oh, I'm fine with that," she replied, putting down her mug and rising from her chair.

Harry watched her from his own chair as she walked around the table to his side, her eyes never breaking contact with his own. He turned in his chair to face her as she leaned down to him, and met his lips in a gentle, heart-stopping, thrilling kiss. He opened his lips under hers, and with that they each poured into the kiss all the pent-up love and longing they'd each been holding within themselves. Harry closed his eyes, and lost himself in the feel of her soft lips on his. He allowed his hands to touch her, and when she didn't pull away, he drew her closer.

By the time they each came up for air, Ruth was sitting on his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck, her pupils dilated, her breathing heavy from the kiss. Harry had a big smile on his face, his arms wrapped around her, with one hand around her waist, and the other resting on the outside of her thigh. In what was most likely an unconscious act, he spread the fingers of that hand, and gradually moved his hand up her thigh. He wanted her now more than he'd ever wanted anything in his life.

"Harry," Ruth said quietly, her mouth close to his ear, "do you have a bedroom?"

.


	3. Chapter 3

**_A/N: Thanks a lot for reading, and to those who have taken time out to review. I appreciate all the reviews. This is the 2nd last chapter._**

* * *

Afterwards, neither Harry nor Ruth could remember how they got upstairs and to Harry's bedroom. Nor could they remember making the decision to do so. It was as if they had decided wordlessly that this was their moment, and unlike so many moments in their shared past, they were not about to squander this one. Once inside Harry's bedroom they fell on to the bed, laughing, and when Ruth opened his shirt buttons and gently put her lips to the bruise on his chest, he knew he would no longer experience pain whenever he breathed. Through their first kiss in sixteen months, Ruth had breathed life back into him, and no wound, no matter how severe, could ever again stop him taking air into the depths of his lungs. They rolled around on the bed kissing, laughing, and removing one another's clothes. When they made love they began slowly and carefully, both wanting to remember every moment, every touch of lips on skin, every moment of eye contact, but passion eventually overruled intention, and during the last torrid thrusts the bedhead hit the wall rhythmically, sounding for all the world like Harry was engaging in a bit of DIY.

"Christ," Harry said after they'd settled under the duvet to relax in one another's arms, "this bed obviously isn't up to the task. I'll bet Scarlet has taken herself into the laundry to take cover behind the washer."

"Poor Scarlet," Ruth said, kissing Harry's shoulder. "You'll have to explain to her that I wasn't hurting you."

Harry smiled and turned to kiss Ruth's hair. "Quite the opposite in fact," he said. "I'm so happy you're here. You can't know how hard it's been to keep going, not knowing if I'd ever see you again."

"But what if I can't come back to London? What if you and Malcolm can't clear my name?"

"I'm not even going to consider that possibility, Ruth. The minute you're clear, I want you back here …. with me." Harry suddenly became quiet, recognising that he'd just made a gigantic assumption about Ruth's future on her behalf. "If that's what you want. You're free to come home or not, depending on what -"

"Of course I'll come home, and if you'll have me, I'd like to …... be with you … here. I think that's all I ever wanted. I was just really afraid of …..."

"Afraid of what, Ruth?"

"I was afraid of how deep my feelings were towards you. Now, after being in exile, I know that feeling what I do for you, and acting on it is so much easier than being away from you, and not being able to see you or communicate with you."

They lay in silence for some time. Ruth thought perhaps Harry had fallen asleep, until he spoke quietly. "In that postcard you sent me – back in April – you said that you wanted me to be happy. I haven't been truly happy since you left to go into exile. Until now, that is. I thought you meant that either you were happy, or you were unhappy, and yet you still wished me happiness."

"How well you know me, Harry. I think that's what I meant. I was feeling very angry when I wrote on that card, and it took me some time to find the right words. I still hoped, that despite everything, you'd found a way to be happy, even if it was with with someone else."

Harry leaned across and kissed her softly. "Thank you, Ruth. You have a heart the size of Russia."

"Russia? What's wrong with Texas?"

"Russia's bigger by far."

"But it's full of Russians."

"Ruth, I think you'll find that Texas is full of Texans."

"And what's wrong with Texans?"

"_Ru-uth_? The Bush family?"

"Neither George Bush - senior or junior - was born in Texas, Harry."

"And that is important because?"

"I think we may have strayed from the original point of this conversation?"

"I believe we have, yes."

"Are you still intending to go into work today, Harry?"

"That's quite a conversation shift, Ruth."

"Are you?"

"I might have to give Adam a ring, just to let him know that I haven't forgotten my duties. With any luck he'll tell me I'm not needed today."

"I think I'm hungry now, Harry. I've worked up a bit of an appetite."

"Me too. Come downstairs with me while I ring Adam, and then I'll rustle up some lunch for us."

* * *

Harry didn't go back to work until Thursday morning, and then for only a few hours. After organising Adam, Malcolm and Connie to cover for him should he be needed, he rushed home, knowing that he and Ruth only had another few hours to spend together.

"We have just under six hours until you have to leave for the airport. How would you like to spend that time?"

Ruth turned to where he sat on the sofa next to her, and sighed. "I know that you probably want a repeat of what we did last night, and then again this morning …..."

"Ruth, I asked you what _you_ wanted to do. If we never made love again, I'd still die a happy man."

"Really? Don't you want to do it again? I was under the impression you'd really enjoyed yourself, but -"

"Ruth. _Ruth_. I asked you what _you_ wanted to do. It's rather obvious what I want, but our time together is precious. I thought you might like to do something else."

"Can we just cuddle, Harry? I'd really like that."

He slid closer to her and put his arms around her, pulling her against him, so that her head rested on his shoulder. He would have been happy to sit there, with this woman in his arms for the remainder of his life.

"Would you really be satisfied if we never made love again? Did you mean that?"

"I didn't say I'd be satisfied. I said I could die happy. I can't remember a time when I haven't wanted you in that way, Ruth."

"You hid it rather well, then."

"So did you. When you turned me down when I asked you out the second time, that was hardly the actions of someone who wanted me."

Ruth went quiet. She hadn't expected Harry to dredge up the past, some of which she'd rather forget. Whilst Ruth remembered their dinner with fondness, she had chosen to close the curtains across her turning Harry down when he'd asked her to again have dinner with him. Had she been able to, she would have taken them both back to that time, and answered differently. Perhaps in making a different decision, she may have been able to change other outcomes.

"I …. I regret that now," Ruth said quietly. "If we had that time over again …..."

"But we can't turn back the clock, Ruth. I'm glad to hear you say you regret turning me down. That helps a lot. At the time all I could think was that you couldn't possibly care for me as much as I cared for you."

"How can you say that?" Ruth pulled away from him so that she could look him directly in the eye. "Of course I cared for you."

Harry hesitated, knowing that he had to choose his words carefully. "From where I stood, I couldn't understand, Ruth, how you could care for me if the opinions of those we worked with overrode your desire to go out with me again. That's just my view of it. At that time, I wasn't about to let anything come between us. Nothing was more important to me than seeing you again away from the Grid."

"Is _this_ what you wanted?" Ruth indicated the both of them.

"All of what we've done today and yesterday, yes, and more. I wanted it all. I still do. I want a life with you. Isn't that what you want?"

Harry felt his heart rate increase dangerously as he waited for Ruth to reply. Her reply meant everything to him. _Everything_. Until she'd walked into his life, he'd not expected to meet anyone with whom he'd want to spend the rest of his life. Without her, the years ahead loomed bleakly, a life lived only half alive. He looked down at her, but she was staring ahead towards the mantelpiece. He breathed out heavily, and for the first time in over 24 hours, his chest hurt. He put his hand over his heart, trying to hide the pain.

"Harry, are you alright?" Her eyes were startled.

"Maybe. Not sure. It all depends on …."

"I'm surprised you even had to ask me if a life with you is what I want. Why do you think I flew to London in a hurry? There's no-one on earth other than you who could bring me out of exile. Flying here on the spur of the moment was a desperate measure on my part to see if you had survived that shooting, and to help nurse you back to health if necessary. Harry ..." She turned on the sofa to look at him. "I gave up my life and my career for you. For _you_."

"I thought that maybe you did it to save Section D, so that we could keep going."

"That too, but really it was for you. I wouldn't have taken such extreme measures for anyone else. Yes, I want the same things you want. I want a life with you. I want you. I don't care if we never have the white picket fence and two kids. As long as you're with me, that's all I care about."

As she spoke, Harry's chest had warmed, and the pain subsided. A smile began in his eyes, and then his whole face relaxed. He reached around and pulled Ruth close to him. "What say we go back upstairs? Who knows how long it will be before we see one another again."

Ruth's reply was to put her lips to his, and tease his lips with her tongue.

* * *

_Harry's house. Thursday 7.47 pm:_

They had both heard the cab door slam on the street outside, which meant that they had only a minute or two in which to say goodbye, and who knew when they'd be seeing one another again. Malcolm had managed to get them each a safe phone, so that could ring one another at any time, and from anywhere. At least they had that. They held one another tightly, waiting for the knock on the door. In a way, they had been saying a long goodbye to one another ever since Ruth had unexpectedly arrived nineteen hours earlier. They kissed again, not passionately, but with gentleness and feeling.

"I love you so much," Harry whispered against her mouth. "This shouldn't be harder than last time you left, but somehow, it is."

"I know. I love you. I'll ring you when I get home."

"But Ruth, home is here."

"You know what I mean."

He did. She had to think of Livorno as her home for the time being. That is how she managed to get through their time apart.

The door knocker banged against the door loudly.

"That'll be the cab," he said unnecessarily. "I'll come out to the car with you."

The cab driver had put Ruth's bag in the boot, and Harry and Ruth were stood beside the open back door, holding one another.

"Someone might be watching, Harry. We already said our goodbyes inside."

"I can't let you go. I know how it feels when you leave me."

"You must let me go, because only then can I come back to you." She pulled away from him then, and reached up to put her hands on his cheeks, and then she kissed him one last time, before she stepped into the cab. She blew him a kiss, and mouthed `I love you', and then she was gone.

Harry stood on the footpath, and watched the cab as it moved quickly down the street, the brake lights glowing bright red before it turned the corner and moved out of sight. Unlike the last time she had left him, she didn't turn back to look at him. He felt empty and hollow once again, and the tears flowed down his cheeks unbidden, and he didn't brush them away. They were a sign that his heart was once again alive. _He_ was alive. He would be fine. She was coming back to him.

* * *

Harry had busied himself with an online search for a new bed. He'd been embarrassed that his bed had not been up to the task of accommodating a couple making love. It had been an old bed, and he was used to it. He'd bought it after his divorce from Jane, and he'd not noticed its deterioration. It had been where he slept, where he rested, nothing more. He needed something better, something stronger, bigger, more solid. He accidentally came upon a website of a company who made handcrafted wooden beds. He liked the look of the king size sleigh beds. He could imagine he and Ruth waking up together in one of those. He needed a new mattress, and a completely new set of bedding as well. The lot may set him back anything up to £2000, but it would be worth it. Before she left, Ruth had given him her email address, so he sent her the link to the website of the bed manufacturer, with a quick note: _Do you have any preferences before I put in my order? I'll be buying new bedding also. Maybe you can let me know your tastes, and I'll see what I can find online. Love you. Harry_

Harry was rediscovering the fun that could be had in sharing his life with another, even if she was in exile in another country.

Just before midnight, Harry heard the text message tone on his safe phone, a brief _beep-beep, beep-beep_. He grabbed the phone from on the desk beside him, and read Ruth's text. _I'm home now. No dramas. It's a warm night in Livorno. I miss you. I love you. R xx_

Harry immediately texted back. _Now I know you're safe I can sleep. I love you. Check your email when you can. I have to buy us a new bed. Need your input. H xxx_

* * *

Over the following three and a half months, Harry and Ruth communicated daily by phone. Harry rang her each morning as he got out of bed, knowing she'd be expecting the call, and when he was not working late, he also rang her at night. They became acquainted in a different way, in a way which involved no other people, and no dramatic national emergencies. Their conversations were like those of a couple of people stranded together on the ocean in a lifeboat, with rescue on the way, but neither sure when it will arrive. These were gentle conversations, and they were the lifeline each needed during this time of limbo.

On a Tuesday morning, early in December, Malcolm burst into Harry's office without knocking. Harry was so shocked that he didn't dare say anything.

"Harry," Malcolm said breathlessly, "I have just the information we've been searching for. To clear Ruth."

Harry sat back in his chair and smiled widely. "Tell me more, Malcolm."


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: This is the final chapter of this fic, and I hope you've enjoyed it. I have enjoyed reading your lovely reviews. I still have yet another post-Cotterdam story waiting in the wings to put up, and then I'll (thankfully) turn my obsession to some other time in the Spooks storyline.**_

* * *

"Mik Maudsley's former psychiatrist rang. He's prepared to give us access to his notes on his sessions with Maudsley, and what's even better, Maudsley's wife has given him written permission to do so." Malcolm smiled across at Harry, knowing how important this breakthrough will be for him. "Carlyon – that's the psychiatrist, Robert Carlyon – is prepared to lose his license over this."

"He won't lose his license. The JIC won't want too much attention to be brought their way. Mace wasn't in this alone. He had backing from the other members of the committee. _Bastards_." Harry uttered the last word quietly, but with barely concealed venom. He couldn't help but think of the year and a half during which Ruth had had to hide. He became instantly angry every time he dwelt on it. "Do you have any details, Malcolm?"

"About what Maudsley said in the weeks leading up to his death? Yes, a lot. Dr Carlyon was quite voluble. We met in St James Park. I recorded our conversation, just in case. I'll leave you with the disk. I trust you'll know what to do next."

Harry did, but first he had to listen to the disk. He put aside the threat assessment summaries he'd been reading, and slipped the mini disk into a player, and put on his headphones. The most relevant part of Malcolm's meeting with Carlyon was when he began to talk about Maudsley's state of mind in the days prior to his suicide. Carlyon was well-spoken and his voice was mellow and easy to listen to. Oxford-educated, his native Salford accent was detectable only when he became angry or verbally animated.

Carlyon: _The trouble is, I knew Maudsley was going to do it._

Malcolm: _Did he tell you?_

Carlyon: _Yes, he told me, several times._

Malcolm:_ Directly, or implied?_

Carlyon: _Both. For the record, because I know you'll be recording this conversation, and so other ears will be listening, either now or later, Jennifer Maudsley knows I'm meeting you, and she's sanctioned my sharing her husband's personal file …... even though she hasn't accessed it herself. My reasons for doing this are because an innocent woman was framed for his murder, and that was wrong. I know he suicided. He'd been talking about it for over a week._

Malcolm: _So …... why didn't you treat him for depression?_

Carlyon: _Because in my professional opinion he wasn't depressed. He was angry, and quite energised by his anger. He felt unable to go on as he was, but he wasn't depressed. His life suddenly had a focus and purpose – as he saw it. He wanted to make a statement before they hung him out to dry…... to sacrifice his life for some greater good. The trouble is his sacrifice went in vain because it was covered up, so in meeting you, Malcolm, I'm trying to right that wrong._

The conversation continued for another fifteen minutes, and during that, Carlyon stated clearly that in his professional opinion Maudsley had been in sound mind, despite having decided to take his life. By the time Harry had finished listening to the recording, he knew that it would probably be enough, and Carlyon may not have to testify to an enquiry. Carlyon's medical career, however, may be under a cloud, but in Harry's opinion, that would soon blow over.

Harry handed the disk back to Malcolm for him to make several copies, all of which he saved on USB drives, and then Harry took the original disk and locked it in his safe in his office. He then rang the Home Secretary and made an appointment for 4 pm that day. The wheels were already in motion. He could feel it.

By Friday afternoon of that week, Whitehall issued a statement which they faxed through to the Grid. In essence, the statement said that all charges against Ruth Evershed had been dropped, and that her name had been cleared. It was Adam who read the fax, and brought it into Harry's office.

"I think you'll want to read this, Harry," he said, and then promptly left Harry's office, giving him a moment alone to read the best news he'd read in a long time.

When Adam reached his desk, he turned to see Harry on his feet, the fax in his hand, and on his face the widest smile he'd ever seen from him. "Drinks at the George tonight?" Adam suggested when Harry stepped on to the Grid to make the announcement.

"That sounds like a good idea, but you can count me out. I'm going home to ring Ruth. She needs to know about this, and as soon as possible. I'll join you for drinks at the George when I have her with me, and hopefully that will be soon."

* * *

On the following Sunday evening, Harry was at Heathrow, waiting for the flight from Pisa, Italy. It was running twenty minutes late, a fact that added to the increasing tension in his shoulders. When the plane eventually landed, and the passengers disembarked, he stood back behind other people who were waiting, just so that he could watch her unseen.

At last he saw her, struggling with her take-on luggage. The strap seemed to keep slipping off her shoulder. Despite that, her eyes were moving quickly over the sea of faces, all waiting for loved ones. _She's looking for me_, he thought, and that thought warmed him, knowing how much she loved him, and was looking forward to seeing him. He pushed forward towards her, and as she left the walkway he grabbed her and pulled her close, and carry-on luggage forgotten, Ruth held on to him just as hard.

"Christ, I've missed you," Harry said against her cheek.

"Me too, but the waiting is over now."

They pulled apart slightly to enable them to kiss. Harry had been unable to get away during the last three and a half months. Each time he'd booked a flight, he'd had to cancel it due to yet another crisis. In the end, to avoid further disappointment, they'd decided to wait until Ruth's name was cleared, and she could come home for good.

Back home – Harry's home, now _their_ home – Scarlet greeted Ruth by dancing around backwards in circles. Ruth laughed at the little dog, and Harry sighed heavily, his heart full with love and thanks – to whatever unseen forces had conspired to allow this extraordinary woman to love him, and to those same forces which had arranged for her name to be cleared so that she could return to him safely.

"I've never seen her do that, Harry."

"She's obviously pleased to see you …... as am I."

"And I haven't the words to express how happy I am to see you, Harry."

He gazed at her, bedazzled by the colour and intensity of her eyes. She had only just arrived home, and already he is lost in her eyes. "Do you want to come upstairs?" he said huskily.

"You're eager."

"I don't mean for ….. _that_ …. although …..I wouldn't say no. The bedroom looks quite different now, and I thought you might like to see the bed."

They climbed the stairs together, Harry carrying her two bags, while Ruth carried the same bag she'd struggled with at the airport. Harry elbowed open the door to the bedroom, and after he'd put down Ruth's luggage, and relieved her of her shoulder bag, he turned on the bedside light. "What do you think?" he said, sweeping one arm in the direction of the bed.

Ruth's mouth formed an `O' as she saw their new bed for the first time. "Oh, Harry, that's beautiful. Are you sure it's big enough?" she said, laughing lightly. It was large – king size – a carved wooden sleigh bed with a duvet cover in a Japanese design in black and gold. Ruth had chosen the bedding herself, so in seeing how well it matched the bed and the rest of the room, how plush and welcoming it looked, she was happy with her choice.

"Unless you're planning on inviting friends over to join us, I think you'll find there's ample room for the two of us." He looked at her shyly. "I was thinking ahead. What if we have a child? You never know. Kids like to get into bed with their parents. They'll probably lie between us and keep us apart. That way they ensure we'll have no more children to provide competition for our affections."

"I hadn't known children could be that devious."

"I think it's embedded into their DNA to compete with siblings not yet conceived."

"Harry, we haven't even discussed children."

"I'm just throwing it out there, Ruth, in case …... well, in case."

"No pressure then?"

"No. It's just a suggestion."

"Harry, I was sure you wouldn't want any more children. I hadn't even considered the possibility you might want children with me."

"Why not? I could warm to the idea of us producing a smaller version of you, or – if we're not quite as lucky – of me."

"I'm not sure the world is ready for another you, Harry, but I'd be happy to have a part in creating that." Ruth's eyes held his. "You've given me something else to think about."

"I'm not going to pressure you if you don't want to, Ruth. We have plenty of time."

Suddenly, Ruth pulled off her boots, stepped up to the bed and crawled across it to lay on her back on her side, the side closest to the window. She wriggled her shoulders until she felt comfortable, and then put her arms above her head in a pose of abandonment. Harry's breath caught in his throat. He was certain she had little idea how erotic were the movements of her body as she lay on top of the duvet.

Harry climbed on to the bed and lay on his side of the bed on his back. To distract himself from Ruth's actions, he bumped his backside up and down on the bed. "See? Solid as a rock. We can hump as enthusiastically as we like, and there'll be no bedhead bashing against the wall, scaring the animals."

"_Hump_? You sound like a porn star."

"If the shoe fits, Ruth."

"You've tried it out then?"

"No. I need you to be here for that. What do you think?"

"I love it, it feels …... it feels," she closed her eyes, burrowing her body into the bedclothes in such a sensual, provocative manner, that Harry felt his body stirring in response. "This bed feels like your arms are wrapped around me." Ruth opened her eyes and looked across at him to see in his eyes the open fire of passion. "But I'm not keen on this," Ruth replied, her hand indicating the space between them.

"That's easily fixed," he replied. "You do this," and he wriggled across the bed until their shoulders touched.

Ruth turned on her side to face him, and very slowly reached across to rest her hand under his jaw, gently stroking his bottom lip with her thumb. Harry turned to face her – his lover, his partner – and reached across to kiss her. Ruth returned his kiss, opening her mouth beneath his, and then his hands pulled off her jacket, and opened the buttons on her blouse. With the fingers of one hand he freed her breast from the cup of her bra so that he could caress her nipple with his thumb. From deep in her throat he heard a moan as her breathing quickened.

"Well, Harry, this is a fine seduction," she said against his mouth. "You bring me up here to look at the bed, and now here we are. I should have known you had an ulterior motive."

Harry smiled against her mouth, and then kissed her in a succession of quick kisses. He pulled down the zip of her skirt, and slid it off – still kissing her. She pushed his jacket off his shoulders, and then slid it down his arms, then threw it on the floor, and opening the buttons on his shirt, she placed her lips on the dark pink mark in the middle of his chest, the only physical reminder of Davie King's bullet. They shucked off the rest of their clothes, caring little where they threw them, needing to feel skin on skin. He didn't speak again until they were both naked, and he was poised above her, about to enter her.

"It's good to have you home, Ruth."

She look up at him, her blue eyes locked on his. "It's good to be home."

* * *

_**A/N:**__** Random ending, I know. I have difficulty with endings.**_


End file.
